ponedeljek, 28. november 2016

Book Fair


Every autumn M and I go to the book fair and every time we buy at least one book. This time there were railways, botany and Turkey, together with a free copy of a family's trip around the world.

I can't wait to immerse myself into Borgesian labyrinth of intentionally blurred and winding sentences which enable a book to start over and over again in front of my eyes, each time taking me with it to its wild serpentines of yearning (if I may borrow certain words from the blurb, even if used incorrectly).




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Vsako jesen greva z M-jem na knjižni sejem in vsakokrat domov prineseva vsaj eno knjigo. Tokrat so naju zapeljale Bohinjska proga, grmovne vrste na slovenskem in Črna knjiga, poleg tega pa še brezplačna knjiga o potovanju družine okoli sveta.

Komaj čakam, da se potopim v borgesovski labirint namenoma zamegljenih in vijugavih povedi, zaradi katerih se knjiga vedno znova začenja pred mojimi očmi. Pustila ji bom, da me vsakokrat vzame s seboj na divje serpentine hrepenenja (če si smem izposoditi nekaj besed z zadnje platnice pa čeprav jih uporabljam napačno).


četrtek, 24. november 2016

Shining Green Threads


I woke up in the middle of a monologue. I was trying to convince somebody to stop upsetting me. After a while I turned and looked into the shadow by the wardrobe to see a small bright light shine for a moment. Did he understand? No, he didn't. A couple of nights later cold air on my cheek woke me. It was like a touch of a finger, only it wasn't a finger, it was air, gentle and cold, caressing my cheek. Like a touch of a moth's wing. I noticed he thickened the dark air with shining thin green threads. 

I never think about asking who he is or what he wants. I don't have to. Back there I know. It's here that I don't, and here it ceases to be important. 




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Zbudila sem se sredi monologa, ko sem nekomu dopovedovala naj me neha vznemirjati. Čez čas sem se obrnila, pogledala v senco ob komodi, kjer se je za trenutek prižgala močna bela lučka, ki tam ne bi smela biti. Je razumel? Ni. Nekaj noči kasneje me je zbudil hladen zrak, ki me je pobožal po licu. Nežen kot dotik krila nočnega metulja. V temi sem videla, da mi je zrak prepredel s svetlečimi zelenimi nitmi. 

Nikoli mi ne pride na misel, da bi vprašala kdo je in kaj hoče. Ni mi treba spraševati. Tam vem kdo je. Tukaj ne vem več in tukaj to ni pomembno.

torek, 22. november 2016

The Secret Place by Tana French


The boy is found dead on the grounds of the all-girls posh catholic school. The police are called, they don’t find out anything and the case gets cold. After a year a note appears on the Secret place in the school, saying “I know who killed him.” The Secret place is the bulletin board where students can pin whatever they want, things they would post on Facebook if they were allowed to use it. The Secret place was set up by the school and is monitored by the teachers.

We read the story from two points of view. What happens in the present is told by a policeman, detective Moran. His story covers the events after the card appeared. The other part of the story takes us to the time leading to the murder and is told from a perspective of a group of schoolgirls. Eventually both stories merge and I liked how they folded into one another, forming a circle.

The story has got its share of social and gender issues, but what I noticed the most was the need to conform, to fit into a mould, which isn’t a choice. It’s carved in stone. There are two groups of girls. Joanne and her friends are what other people want them to be or what the girls think other people want them to be. Holly and her friends are different; they don’t care what other people think. Whatever they do, they do it for reasons of their own, not other people’s.

Holly and her friends sneak out one night. What they experience is too different from anything else, anything forbidden, it’s all their own. It’s when magic happens. At first I didn’t know what to think about the paranormal elements like turning the lights on and off without touching the switch. Later I saw them as an indicator of the girls’ connection, strength of their group. When they are together, anything is possible. Once one of them goes out at night alone, she feels something she hasn’t felt for a long time and it takes her a moment to understand it is fear.

After the murder nothing is as it was before. Holly and her friends start arguing, picking at each other, being nasty to each other. First time in their friendship they want to get away from each other. After a while they want to go out at night again, which they couldn’t do, because the lock has been changed. It all turns into something imagined, forgotten.

There are a lot of things I didn’t mention in this post. The Secret Place is a complex novel and it’s hard to cover all issues without revealing too much. One other thing I loved is the writing and the author’s ability of evoking atmosphere. The Secret Place is the first Tana French novel I read, but it’s not going to be the last.

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V parku ob dekliški katoliški šoli najdejo umorjenega fanta. Pokličejo policijo, ki ničesar ne odkrije in čez čas se primer ohladi. Kakšno leto kasneje se na neke vrste oglasni deski, ki nadomešča prepovedani Facebook, pojavi kartonček s fantovo fotografijo in stavkom "Vem kdo ga je ubil." 

Zgodbo beremo z dveh zornih kotov, ki se med seboj izmenjavata. Dogajanje v sedanjosti pripoveduje policist, detektiv Moran. Njegova zgodba teče od trenutka, ko mu je Holly prinesla kartonček. Drugi del se dogaja kakšno leto prej, pred umorom, in ga beremo s perspektive skupine šolark. Na koncu se obe zgodbi združita in skleneta krog.

Srečujemo se s socialno tematiko, enakostjo spolov in še marsičem, vendar mi je najbolj v spominu ostala potreba po pripadanju, predalčkanju, ustrezanju pričakovanjem, ki pa ni izbira. Je obveznost, vklesana v kamen. Spremljamo dve skupini deklet. Joanne in njene prijateljice se obnašajo tako kot drugi želijo ali tako kot one mislijo, da drugi želijo. Holly in njena družba so kar so, ne zanima jih kaj si drugi mislijo. Kar  naredijo, naredijo zaradi sebe in ne zaradi drugih.

Holly in njene prijateljice se neke noči odtihotapijo ven. Izkušnja je intenzivna, popolnoma drugačna od katerega koli drugega kršenja pravil, je nekaj čisto njihovega. Od takrat se zgodi marsikaj magičnega. Sprva nisem vedela kaj naj si mislim o paranormalnih elementih zgodbe, kot na primer prižiganje in ugašanje luči, ne da bi se dotaknile stikala. Sčasoma sem magijo videla kot tisto, kar poudarja povezovalno moč njihove skupine, ko je mogoče vse. Neke noči ena od njih odide ven sama. Potrebuje nekaj časa, da prepozna čustvo, ki ga je skoraj že pozabila, kot strah.

Po umoru se stvari spremenijo, njihova vez se zrahlja in komaj čakajo, da se lahko umaknejo druga od druge. Čez čas skušajo ponoči spet oditi ven pa ne morejo, ker so medtem zamenjali ključavnico. Njihovi polnočni izleti nenadoma postanejo nekaj izmišljenega in sčasoma pozabljenega.

V tem zapisu sem veliko izpustila. Knjiga je precej kompleksna in če bi želela omeniti vse, bi povedala preveč. Zelo mi je všeč avtoričin način pisanja in njena sposobnost opisovanja atmosfere, ki jo bralec začuti, ne samo bere o njej. The Secret Place je prva knjiga Tane French, ki sem jo prebrala, gotovo pa ne bo zadnja.


sobota, 19. november 2016

Graellsia Isabellae


I don't remember what I was looking for the other day, when something disrupted the so called order of my moth paintings. Between Actias Luna and Erebus Albicincta Obscurata, fluttered Graellsia Isabellae, perfect for Romance Sonambulo. According to Wikipedia, she is a European version of Actias Luna. Spanish Moon Moth lives in Spain and France. Red lines on her wings make her look less fragile than the green version, Luna Moth, although I think she is equally translucent. Somehow she seems rough, concrete, not something out of a fairy-tale, but a real moth. Beautiful and scary at the same time. 

The red lines on her wings remind me of a steel structure of a greenhouse. It's a crumbed down greenhouse, ovegrown with ivy, Virginia creeper and vine, abandoned for decades ... or so it seems. Each night the green maiden comes to the balcony, waiting among shadows. With silver eyes she watches the reflection of the moon on the water below in the fountain.


Graellsia Isabellae / Spanish Moon Moth / Španska mesečeva vešča. Photo source / vir

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Ne spomnim se več kaj sem iskala, ko sem naletela na nekaj, kar je porušilo navidezni redosled mojih akvarelnih vešč. Med Actias Luno in Erebus Albicincta Obscurato je priletela Graellsia Isabellae, Španska mesečeva vešča. Kot nalašč za Mesečniško romanco. Glede na informacije na Wikipediji, živi v Španiji in Franciji in je evropska verzija Actias Lune. Zaradi rdečih linij na krilih je videti manj krhka kot zelena Mesečeva vešča, čeprav se mi zdi, da je enako prosojna. Po svoje je bolj groba, konkretna. Nič več napol namišljeno bitje iz pravljice, ampak resnična vešča. Lepa in strašljiva hkrati.

Rdeče linije na njenih krilih me spominjajo na jekleno strukturo napol podrtega rastlinjaka, preraslega z bršljanom, virginsko plezalko in trto. Rastlinjak je že desetletja zapuščen ... ali pa se samo tako zdi. Vsako noč na balkon pride zelena mladenka in čaka med sencami. S srebrnimi očmi opazuje odsev lune na vodi v vodnjaku.


ponedeljek, 14. november 2016

Verde Que Te Quiero Verde


I remember a house near my old high school. There was nothing special about it except the words written in red paint: green, how I want you green. Even then I thought those words dangerously intimate, the same as the voice saying them in Federico García Lorca's poem. There's something erotic in green colour, like the awakening of spring in Green Poem by Kajetan Kovič and Johannes Itten's interpretation of green. And there's the girl with green flesh and green hair, waiting on a balcony, while things she cannot see watch her from the darkness. My green moth is what watches her under the gipsy moon. The moth may as well be another version of moonlight, another moon. It's not what we see, but what watches us.

There's no use in searching for a linear story in Romance Sonambulo. It's what the title says it is: a sleepwalker's ballad. It's like a recurring dream, telling the same story from three points of view not adding up. They are different with each reading. Every time we bring different things into it and in return find different things waiting for us. Searching for the story, filling the gaps in meaning, aim for a single correct reading kills the reader's power to interpret and find their own meaning. There's no order anymore, no sequential story, no rules.

My three stories are the story of a green maiden, standing on a balcony, the story of a man in blood stained shirt climbing to the high balconies, and the story of drunken Guardias Civiles, pounding on the door. The last ones are the most intangible, representatives of power, order and rules, renouncing all of it in their alcoholic intoxication.




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Ko sem hodila v srednjo šolo, je bil na dolgočasni fasadi hiše na Trubarjevi ulici z rdečo barvo izpisan grafit "zeleno, ki te hočem, zeleno". Že takrat se mi je zdel nevarno intimen, podobno kot glas, ki izgovori te besede v Lorcovi pesmi. Nekaj erotičnega je v zeleni, če jo povežem z Zeleno pesmijo Kajetana Koviča in s prebujajočo se pomladjo v Ittnovi interpretaciji zelene barve. In morda z mladenko zelene kože in zelenih las, ki stoji na balkonu in čaka, medtem, ko jo stvari, ki jih ne more videti opazujejo iz teme. Zelena vešča je tisto, kar pod ciganskim mesecem opazuje dekle. Pravzaprav je druga verzija mesečine, druga luna. Ni tisto kar gledamo temveč tisto, kar gleda nas.

Nima smisla iskati linearno zgodbo v pesmi, dogajanje ki bi nam povedalo za kaj gre. Mesečniška romanca je to, kar že naslov pove: mesečniška romanca. Je kot ponavljajoče se sanje, ki pripovedujejo isto zgodbo iz treh zornih kotov, ki se med seboj ne skladajo. Z vsakim branjem so nekoliko drugačni, saj vsakokrat prinesemo v pesem nekaj drugega, najdemo nekaj drugega. Iskanje zgodbe, zapolnjevanje manjkajočih polj v pomenu, stremljenje k edinemu pravilnemu branju zabetonira bralčevo moč kreiranja lastnega pomena. Tu ni več reda, ni zaporedja, ni pravil.

Moje tri zgodbe so zgodba mladenke, ki stoji na balkonu, zgodba moškega v krvavi srajci, ki pleza na visoke balkone in zgodba pijanih orožnikov, ki tolčejo po vratih. Ti zadnji so še najbolj neoprijemljivi, predstavniki oblasti, reda, pravil, ki jih v opoju alkohola sami zanikajo.

petek, 11. november 2016

I'll Never Forget You, You Know!


It was ages ago when I first heard of Leonard Cohen. I don't remember which was the first song of his I heard, but whichever it was, I couldn't put his voice out of my head. It reminds me of autumn fires, it's anthracite grey with a hint of orange.

… ponudi ji roko, z dlanjo obrnjeno navzgor. Ona brez razmišljanja položi dlan v njegovo. Zavrtita se mimo palače s stoterimi bleščečimi okni, s kamnitimi podobami desetih lepotic, zaradi katerih smrt joče in s košatim drevesom v vrtu, kjer umirajo golobice. Valček se vrti vase, v smrt, namakajoč svoj rep v morje …

He translated Federico García Lorca's Little Viennese Waltz and sang it as Take This Waltz. I imagined it as waltzing through the city in the middle of the night, in the hour when only loners and weirdos remain standing. Like in my dreamscapes, where anything is possible. Reading Lorca and Cohen was suddenly realizing that it's all right not to search for the ultimate linear story. Disjointed dreams and fragmented bits and pieces happening all at once are more my world.

… hočem te, hočem te, hočem te, ji vročično šepeta in sam sebi zveni kot nekdo iz že davno mrtve knjige, pozabljene v grobnici polni težko dišečih lilij. Njen kristalen smeh se mu vsuje po hrbtu. Vrti jo mimo ogledal v dvorani, kjer skozi odprta velika okna sliši tisoč odmevov njenega smeha, mimo kamnitih mladeničev, z ušesi za vedno polnimi otožne glasbe in z venci solz, ki so jim položeni k nogam. Zasluti košček prihodnosti, zmrznjene v zimski pozebi …

I'll continue reading Leonard Cohen's poetry and listening to anthracite grey of his voice, losing myself between the layers of different streaks happening all at once. It's like a garden with intertwining paths where I continue living my life as if it's real, even though I know it isn't. Down there, a thousand kisses deep.

… vzemi ta valček, prevzetnica, vzemi, dajem ti ga, je vse kar imam, vse kar je še ostalo. Ljubil te bom s krinko reke na obrazu, na podstrešju prežetem s spomini na otroške igre, ogrske svetilke pozabljenega cesarstva in meglice nekega sladkega popoldneva. Položil te bom na posteljo, ki se je do sedaj prazna kopala v mesečini. Gledal bom temačen molk tvoje duše in lilije prekrite s snegom, mehkim kot ovčje runo. Dušo bom zakopal v tvoje spomine, kot v album poln starih plesnivih fotografij. Poglej hijacinte na bregovih reke, na moji rami. Vdal se bom poplavi tvoje lepote in pustil poljub med tvojimi stegni. Nikoli te ne pozabim, veš to …


ponedeljek, 07. november 2016

Moth Into Words


What happens if I abstract a moth into words, or even better, into letters? I watch it greenly disappear into letters flying away one by one. Each letter whispers silently when it rises out of the moth into thin air. No matter what I do, the moth never really disappears. I know it's still there, I can hear it fly in the darkness. The days are getting shorter ...


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Kaj se zgodi, če abstrahiram veščo tako, da jo spremenim v besede ali še boljše, v črke? Opazujem kako zeleno izgine v črke, ki druga za drugo s tihim šepetom odletijo in izginejo v nič. Ne glede na to kako se trudim, vešča nikoli zares ne izgine. Vedno ostane. Vem, da je tam, slišim jo leteti v temi, medtem ko se dnevi krajšajo.